Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  She opened the door. He hugged her, took her bag and introduced her to the younger man.

  “This is Andre. He is my driver. Come, we must leave. I need to get you to a place of safety. Trust only me.”

  It was a lie. It all was. He knew she had betrayed him.

  They reached the car, got in and headed south – blending with traffic. Thomas sat back and saw another man, counted that she was outnumbered three to one. And yet with him there she felt safe.

  The first police unit arrived seconds later. As instructed, they waited outside in the street. For all intents they may as well have been a hundred miles away.

  The Vauxhall turned left, second left, right and straight on, a different route but equally anonymous.

  Roberts was at the flat three minutes later. He took the lift, followed by one of the two uniformed officers, asking the other to take the stairs. Rank had its privileges.

  They got to the hallway. “Anything on the stairs?”

  “Nothing boss” said a breathless constable who decided that now would be a great time to start smoking.

  “Wait here.”

  He approached the door and knocked. A nearby door opened.

  “Wasting your time, guv. She left with two blokes about five minutes ago. Bloody door has been banging all night. We all know what she gets up to, filthy cow. Each to their own though, eh? Night.”

  “Wait.” Roberts had his brown shoe in the doorway. “Two of them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Description?”

  “You Old Bill?”

  “No, I just get a kick out of hanging around with men in uniform. Yes, I am a police officer. A DCI as it happens.”

  “Crikey, not seen one of you round here since the last murder.”

  “Look, I’d love to chat, but what did they look like?”

  “Swarthy. Black hair. Druggies, probably. Needed a good meal. One was younger, the other one, older, he did all the talking. Seemed pretty friendly with her. Even called her dear, which was nice. Anyway, Coronation Street is on. Anything else?”

  “No. You’ve been outstanding, say hi to Ken Barlow for me.”

  Roberts leant against Thomas’ door. It was open. He beckoned to the staff who approached, drawing their spray and batons.

  He pushed open the door and entered, remembering the last time he had done so. Nothing. Lucy Thomas never allowed anyone into her home without a fanfare. She was gone.

  So now all he had to do was find her and Cynthia Bell. Any more good news?

  Chapter Thirteen

  With occasional and deliberate stops the Vauxhall finally got back to the old fireworks site.

  “This is remote Connie. Pretty. But remote.” Thomas was trying her best to sound confident.

  “It is. We need to keep you safe. Away from everyone. Come on.”

  He held her hand and lifted her gently out of the car, picking up her bag and guiding her towards a doorway.

  As she entered the darkened room, she felt the first barb of the Taser hit her skin. She tried to scream but failed, convinced she was saying something she could only offer an extended moan. The pain was not intense, but it was rapid and soon over. Her whole body was rigid, her legs cramped and as she fell forward, landing in an undignified position onto the concrete floor where she relaxed. Her wig had slipped and her make-up had slithered, now smudged and unattractive. It was a low point in her career. She thanked God above that no one was filming her.

  The probes were still in her back and attached to the Taser.

  Plasticuffs were wrapped around her wrists and tightened with a rasping sound.

  Who would do this to her? Had they got Constantin too?

  Carried like the carcass of a dead animal she felt genuine fear for the first time in her life. It worsened when she saw the man she trusted stood at a bench, alongside another similar structure. She could see another person lying on it, strapped down, immobile and pale. She was probably dead.

  “Constantin please…”

  He looked at the two males. “You know what to do.”

  They lifted her up and onto the bench and secured her to it, level with the other person who she could see was a female. They then started cutting away her sleeves. Silver-grey tape was wrapped across her lips.

  Nicolescu looked at her. Did he feel hatred towards her or pity?

  Had she betrayed him or herself? Did she need to die?

  His head was awash with questions. For now, what she needed to do was keep her unintentional roommate alive. He hoped that everything he had read about this moment would work. He stared at the yellowed pages of a manual. It had to be a manual, there was no room for higher-level communications and the internet was taboo.

  He had no idea how they had got the book, or the equipment that was on the nearby table, but he admired their skill and tenacity in providing him with everything from his shopping list. Strong gypsies all of them.

  He opened the book which dated from the First World War and began to read, avoiding the frantic eyes of Cynthia Bell and Lucy Thomas.

  The two males stepped back – quite unsure what was going to happen.

  “I need light. And peace.”

  He nodded from one to the other. “If this works, we keep her alive. If it doesn’t she bleeds to death too. Either way I have to try, as our surgery didn’t quite go to plan. At least we have plenty of land on which to bury them.” He smiled at Bell who was willing herself to die.

  “OK. I first need to make an end-to-end connection between the donor – this person here who I used to love. And the patient, this person here who actually means nothing to me.”

  It was as if he were performing a lecture, or a TED Talk video to medical students.

  “Right. I need to cut here, next to the elbow. This vein just…here…and slide this in…like this.”

  The first male passed out.

  “Now comes the difficult part. There may be some blood.”

  Bell was trying her best to scream but instead made desperate muffled, gagging sounds.

  The younger male watched in awe. He had never seen anything like it in his sheltered life.

  “Sir. How many times have you done this?”

  “Only once. Right…”

  He passed a suture through the radial artery in Thomas’ wrist then clamped it. He slid a short metal tube into the gap and threaded the artery through it, pulling it back to form a cuff. He secured it in place. It was surreal. He was actually smiling.

  He told the boy to add extra pressure at the junction of Bell’s elbow. He had the tourniquet if necessary but that seemed to even up the odds a little too much. He worked better under pressure.

  With the blood flow stemmed he prepared Bell’s vein. Then, when he was satisfied that the unions were in effect clean and ‘watertight’ he joined them with a rubber tube.

  There were easier ways than this. But the book he had only showed this one untried and latterly precluded method. This was brutal and had its origins hundreds of years prior.

  If the blood flowed and did not clot too quickly, he would succeed in his aim – to keep Bell alive long enough to send another message.

  Thomas’ heart pumped the blood around her body, through the cannula and into the tube. The rhythmic pulse did its job admirably, forcing her universal Type O blood into Bell’s famished veins.

  Bell visibly improved, almost grateful, she accepted the life-giving donation, conversely hoping it was the beginning of the end.

  Thomas watched as her own blood left her, wondering where she would be in the next few hours and why this had happened. She should have listened to Roberts.

  It took longer than he thought but Constantin had succeeded in keeping Bell alive. The wound where he had removed her hand would probably never heal in the conditions in which he had found himself, literally operating. But that was acceptable. She was what he saw as a casualty of war. He gave her morphine and watched her settle, her eyes closing, praying to never open them again
.

  He removed the cannula from Thomas’ wrist, held a gauze pad on the small wound, then added a decent sized plaster. Tapped her on the face and nearly said thank you. For now, she was alive too and useful.

  Roberts rang a few people, spoke to the control room then headed home. There was nothing he could do. He hadn’t felt as professionally anxious in years. Why couldn’t these people just go somewhere else, and annoy someone else? In classic negotiation operations he knew that if they had Bell in their captivity, sooner or later there would be a message of some form. He wasn’t sure however why they had taken Thomas – and what for.

  Torture? Fun? Revenge? Help? Perhaps she had converted to their way of thinking? Money talked. She could talk under water. Unlike Niko, his mind whirred.

  ‘Stop now. Stop. Seriously Jason stop.’

  He slipped into bed knowing he had to be up and awake and on top form again. His team would need a briefing on what had happened, and he needed to elevate this to the next level – probably higher.

  He needed Cade back in the country too.

  He closed his eyes and endured a half-sleep until four when he lowered himself out of bed and forced the shower nozzle onto pulse and stood there trying to make sense of the night before. His head nodded, eyes closed. He was back on the tube train, hearing the bones shatter in his forearm. The sound of them snapping brought him back to life with a jolt.

  He drew pictures on the steamed-up glass and tried to use it as a whiteboard – brainstorming, but nothing transpired. All he could do was draw a bloody wave. He needed to be at work, surrounded by people that understood. He adored his wife, but she hadn’t got a clue about the brutal way of life that surrounded him. ‘It’s better that way’ he said as he rinsed the shower glass and stepped out.

  He shaved, cleaned his teeth, kissed his wife on the hand and left. It was just after five.

  Bell had made it through the night. Thomas was in a stronger condition and trying to remonstrate with anyone that would listen now that the duct tape had been removed. No one could hear her, so she could shout as loud and long as she wanted to.

  “Hello Lucy.” Nicolescu walked into the room, rubbing his eyes.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “I didn’t. I needed to go to the toilet. You cannot keep us like this.”

  “I can. There is a hole in the bench. Just do it, we will hose you down.”

  “I’ve seen animals treated better than this.”

  “That is because I admire animals. They are loyal.”

  “Why Connie? What are you doing to me? I thought we were…special?”

  “Why? Because you betrayed me. And that must never happen. What am I doing? I am using you as my medical experiment. You survived the first round. And no, we are not special anymore. I hope you like it here Lucy – whatever your name is – because this is where your life will end among the brambles and scrubland of a derelict factory, a fitting end for someone who is also living in the past. I have to go, I have things to do, but I will be back later. See you after work. Ciao.”

  He pulled a strip of tape from a roll and placed it tightly over her mouth. He was sick of hearing her voice and did not see why his team needed to listen to her endless cackle.

  The way he left was beyond bizarre, almost as if they were in a relationship. She turned to Bell and spoke with her eyes.

  “You OK?”

  Bell could only nod gently.

  Roberts arrived at work, parked and walked to the stairs. Old habits die hard. He got to his office to be met by McGee.

  “Morning boss. Cracking out there. Love mornings like this, cold but blue sky – I ran alongside the river this morning just as the sun came up. Ready for another day?”

  She was pretty and really bloody annoying. So upbeat. Her eyes were the window to a soul that he admired.

  Roberts looked up through his own rather hooded eyes and the veil of a pounding headache.

  She knew straight away. “Long black. No milk, some sugar and a bacon sandwich, right?”

  “Nice. But make mine a croissant, I’m vegetarian. Grab one for yourself though and get the team together in twenty. And Bridie.”

  “Boss?”

  “Thanks.”

  A cardboard box sat on his desk, covered in bright yellow labels. It was dominating his workspace, so he pulled it towards him; he was too tired to read the labels or even shake it in a reckless manner. He slit open the tape with a packing knife and opened the box. It contained a hundred small polystyrene shapes and a candle with a pre-printed note.

  ‘Thank you for your order which has been sent by a friend. We hope this product soothes your mind and aids your recovery. In each is a unique message that will change your day.’

  “Can’t get any bloody worse can it?” He laughed. “I’m talking to a candle. I need some sleep.” He looked up. Nick Fisher was at the door.

  “Guv. You look like shit. And if it hasn’t dawned on you, you are having a conversation with a candle. Coffee?”

  “I was waxing lyrical, detective sergeant.” He knew it was awful but comedically he was spent.

  “Anyway Nick, you are too late. Your gorgeous nemesis has already gone for one, and a bacon sandwich too. Text her. She’ll bring you one. My treat.”

  Fisher produced his phone and started texting. “Do you want a light for that boss?” He pointed to the candle.

  “You know, seeing as though you’ve become a fucking raging hippy overnight. What next, tantric massage and quinoa at the briefings?” He smiled.

  “I didn’t know you cared Fish. And I didn’t know you smoked?”

  “I don’t boss. Stopped after I was an undercover officer at a Rockbitch concert.”

  “Rock?”

  “Bitch. It’s a rather long story. But a good detective always carries a lighter.”

  He allowed the blue flame to ignite the white wick. Roberts watched it dance and flicker until the cord lit and the flame became yellow.

  “I can’t smell fuck all boss? I’d ask for your money back from the Tibetan monks or wherever it was you got it from.”

  “It was a gift. No idea where from, I threw the packaging away. You’re right. It doesn’t smell at all. Come on, let’s go and get this briefing done.”

  The flame teased the wax, heating it and causing it to liquefy. Its maker had no idea how long it would last, all he cared about was getting the message delivered in a way that was memorable and ideally it would reveal itself before its recipient in a way that made his day memorable.

  “Right. You all know the history of the team that calls itself the Seventh Wave. You know about its hierarchy and how in the past they have targeted the main banks in this country? You know about the key players, where we think they are and why we think they have risen again as a tangible threat to the UK?”

  Everyone nodded. There were no questions.

  “Good. So why eleven years later?” Roberts left the question to hang in the air. He believed in the continuing questions methodology. Keep asking why and eventually you got to the answer. But for now, he didn’t want to do all the talking.

  “They’ve been banged up in the big house, guv?” It was Fisher.

  “Or they escaped…?” McGee.

  “Some escaped and re-formed, waiting for Stefanescu to get back to the helm?” Fisher.

  “Something else boss.” McGee.

  It was like a rally at Wimbledon. Centre Court, match point.

  Then another voice chipped into the conversation, female, assured.

  “Because they failed to get what they wanted last time.”

  The team turned in unison. Fisher spoke first in tones that were meant to be hushed.

  “Fuck me where did she come from?”

  Stood in the doorway was Sassy Lane the former Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and now Home Secretary.

  “Well to be precise, Detective Sergeant Fisher, my Jaguar, before that the Houses of Parliament, but originally, I was bo
rn in a small village in the very tip of Leicestershire. Need I carry on?”

  “No ma’am, apologies. I tend to use expletives when I’m excited.”

  “Don’t we all? Apology accepted. I’m glad I excite someone.”

  Fisher had no idea how she knew his name. It was a party piece. Gather photographs of teams that she worked with and memorise them one by one.

  “And you DS McGee. Good to see you sparring with your colleagues. Great to see a woman in a position of authority too.” She winked.

  Lane’s hair had shortened over the years and she had aged – government work did that to you but she still looked good, arguably the most attractive member of what was known as the Great Offices of State.

  As attractive as she was – and she was – Lane had a bite worse than a piranha if anyone crossed her – or worse still, picked on the weak. Roberts remembered that about her from 2004 and he liked it at the time and still did. It seemed like a few months since he had first met her. The fact that she had remained in government, at the highest possible level meant she was either damned good at what she did or she was a favourite of the Prime Minister James Cole.

  For eleven years Cole had maintained a stable and rational Conservative government and had promoted those that he trusted. Secretly he also favoured those that he liked – and in Lane’s case loved. It was perhaps the best or worst kept secret in parliament. Somehow the gutter press had missed it altogether. Hiding in plain sight had never been more relevant.

  She slipped off her goatskin gloves. They had become her trademark. Folding them she placed them on the table and took a seat next to McGee.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all ma’am. You’re the boss.” And she was. Policing, national security and control of MI5. Her last portfolio was impressive, but this one meant more to her and she saw it as the next step to leading the country. Either that or become pregnant to Cole and live in the Home Counties and leave it all behind her. Two kids, nice home, Range Rover, a few ducks and a black Lab. Some chance.